


Only Reason I Need

by OftheLilies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, First Kiss, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OftheLilies/pseuds/OftheLilies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back from a case and things are as they always have been, but he needs to tell John how he feels. Not everything appearing as it seems.</p><p>-Inspired by the Special-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Reason I Need

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first go at something like this.... I apologize in advance for the typos that are there. I'd love any advice you guys might have. I love comments in general! :)
> 
>  
> 
> [http://ofthelilies.tumblr.com/](Tumblr)

“Brilliant! You were absolutely brilliant,” John continued in a rush, his voice a few tremors away from laughter.

Sherlock beamed quietly as he hung his coat up on the back of the door. There was something about this moment that he didn’t want to break with words. Instead he silently preened while John went to go make tea. Sherlock observed the room in front of him. He hadn’t been back here for days but everything had changed. The consulting detective couldn’t put his finger on what as he took in John’s closed laptop, throw blanket over John’s chair, John’s mug right where John usually sat during the mornings. Newspaper laid out, but dates remained unseen. Sherlock shook his head and away went any feelings of something being off.

John had continued talking about the case in flattering details. Sherlock smiled again, the kind that stretched his face into something else entirely. Those sharp cheekbones the only warning of what was there moments ago. 

Sherlock watched as John continued on his voice white noise as Sherlock concentrated on his form moving about the kitchen. His face appearing impassive as he watched John from the corner of his eyes. That jumper was the most horrid in John’s lengthy collection. It was Sherlock’s favorite. The piece of clothing fueled many thoughts of what Dr. Watson would look like without it. How much better he would look with Sherlock’s hand mapping every inch of skin the material covered. 

John stopped talking and was staring back at him, waiting. Sherlock had went too long without responding. The water was almost done heating. He blinked and concentrated on the wall in front of him before taking a seat in his chair. 

“It was simple really, I just-“ He just couldn’t remember any of the details from the case. His brain coming up with a long blankness of words. Sherlock blamed it on John. Sometimes when John would stand too close to him, stare at him for too long, or his voice would deepen Sherlock’s mind would stutter. He would lose his train of thought for a few second before getting it back in line, but this, this was too long. 

John didn’t seem to find anything wrong, waiting there patiently. “It was simple,” he reiterated drumming his hands along the arm chair and resisting the urge to bounce his leg up off the ground. In that moment Sherlock was grateful for the imaginary barrier the kitchen presented. He needed to think. 

Sherlock brought his steepled hands under his chin and tried to remember what it was he should be thinking about. John had stopped moving about and was watching him as the tea steeped. It was the way John watched him when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. When would he realize Sherlock was always looking? John stared at Sherlock's feet and slowly worked his way up to the consulting detective's face. It was too slow to be properly considered anything more than a long observation, but still something in Sherlock’s stomach clenched under that stare.

He wondered if that is what he looked like at crime scenes. Astute, focused… devoted. Sherlock looked up towards the ceiling and willed his breathing to be kept at an even pace. This world’s edges felt blurred under the kind of attention he was currently receiving from his flatmate.

That word, flatmate, didn’t feel right in his head. Sherlock pushed it out of his mind and kept sifting through his thoughts to find what he wanted. There was a reason he was feeling this way, nervous almost. If self named sociopaths were capable of nerves.

John handed Sherlock his cuppa. Their hands lingered, always lingering. John was the first to draw back and sit in his seat. Sherlock pursed his lips and studied the contents of his mug, savored it’s warmth. John’s hands were warm, they had calluses from too many jumped over fences, hand grasping last calls, and familiarizing itself with its owner’s gun on a near daily basis. He had strong hands Sherlock decided. There were no traces on his palms to tell where else they had been today. 

Sherlock did a double take at John’s hands. “New mug?” Sherlock questioned his voice too sharp and accusatory for the confusion he felt. John always used the same mug with the same patriotic symbol. This one read ‘World’s Best Husband’ across it in bold letters.

John laughed like it was nothing. “Gag gift from Greg.”

And that made sense… Kind of. The pieces weren’t clicking together correctly in Sherlock’s head. “How quaint,” he muttered injecting disdain into his voice. It didn’t seem funny to him, not at all. Sherlock got himself out of the chair. The movements angry without having reason to be. He walked over to the window staring out of it. There was no one outside to distract his attention away. When Sherlock grew bored enough he could deduce the people walking by even at this height. 

John had gotten up to follow him. He was standing too close, which was funny because Sherlock usually is the one that stands too close. Real funny, not the mug funny. Closeness used to make John uncomfortable. It still can make John uncomfortable, but in a different way. A way that made John’s pulse start to pick up, his eyes dilate. Sometimes John would find an excuse to go to his room. Sherlock needed an excuse. 

Sherlock knew what he should say, what to do. The whole reason they were here in this moment was because of this. “I have something I need to convey to you.” His deep voice shook a bit at the end.

He turned away from the window to stare down at his blogger. His not quite blonde, brown, grey hair was sticking up in angles on one side. Sherlock clenched his fist and tried not to stare too deep into his flatmate’s dark blue eyes. John’s expression was open, understanding, a bit concerned, a bit hopeful.

Sherlock froze his mouth working, but no words coming out. This was John, but he couldn’t keep pretending anymore. Hiding. Sherlock had been called many things but never a coward. He was not afraid of what other people thought of him, what he said. He shouldn’t be afraid now.

“Well get on with it,” John said in a teasing manner. Sherlock continued to stare down at John willing the words to come. His gaze was unwavering, he wouldn’t move from this spot until he had said it. He watched as John grew ‘uncomfortable.’ His darker eyes sliding away as his face started flush. Sherlock could practically hear the pounding.

“Are you alright? A bit peckish?” John prepared to run back to the kitchen or the nearest place he could hide.

“No. I-“ And Sherlock stopped because he knew how to use words in the same way John new how to act. Seamlessly, without any hesitation. In order to communicate this he had to speak John’s language. It was easy when John looked up at him shifting slightly from foot to foot. Wanting to leave so he could think about how much he wanted to be there. Sherlock could see it all, but he was still scared.

Even as he leaned in, and brushed their lips softly against each others.

John’s were chapped, was Sherlock’s first thoughts as he quickly pulled away. It was suppose to be light, communicative. Not more, there was no more yet. Until there was with John’s hands grabbing at the front of Sherlock’s purple shirt that he liked so much. Sherlock could tell that too. John watched him more on those days. Eyes constantly drawn to his clavicle and forceps. John’s hands brushed over those very places right now as he deepened the kiss between them. Sherlock pulled back.

“Wait,” Sherlock began. Bewildered, even with all of the evidence he never thought… He always thought Watson would go with someone, anyone better.

“You told me you were married to The Work,” John breathed, just the slightest hitch in his breath to indicate anything was going on with him. Both of their eyes roved over each other and Sherlock couldn’t just stand here and talk when John’s language worked so much better. He crowded John stepping into his space. Making him backpedal towards the sofa. Sherlock watched as John’s pupils were blown wide by the action.

“You told me that you weren’t gay, well told anyone that would listen,” Sherlock said with a hint of a cruel smile. “Which you aren’t, bi maybe or it could just be me.” The better just be me was left unsaid. John’s knees hit the back of the sofa. He stood not moving his posture becoming a bit rigid. “I knew though, it didn’t matter what you said. I always know,” Sherlock punctuated the words with a hard look.

“How’s that?” John asked, his words playful even when Sherlock was being anything but. It drew them back into neutral territory. 

Sherlock opened his mouth in a deep inhale preparing for the long string of deductions that would lead to the conclusion he had just presented, but he couldn’t. John already had that ‘I’m going to listen to this to amuse you and because you’re brilliant’ look on his face. Sherlock let out the breath with a relaxed inhale. “The way you look at me.”

It was really the only reason he needed. Those words the only reason John needed as he grabbed hold of Sherlock’s shoulder spinning him around before shoving him down onto onto the sofa. Sherlock sharply drew in a breath and tried not to react to John’s show of strength. It never ceased to amaze him. Sherlock attempted to right himself but John was there crawling over him. Mouth over mouth. There was no facade of sweet first touches anymore. John’s mouth was hard and unyielding against Sherlock’s as he took control.

Sherlock wanted the control he was still angry, sad, confused under the surface of it all. He needed something to ground him in this moment. He bit down on John’s bottom lip causing him to groan out loud. The sound translated to the desperate need of it all.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, anything, but John was back. Tongue chasing Sherlock’s into his mouth before Sherlock could utter a word. John’s mouth tasted like tea, biscuits, a drop of blood, and home. John’s hand were rough against Sherlock’s chest. One unbuttoning in a hurry while the other pulled out where his shirt had been tucked in. Strong hands skittered across the edge of his ribs causing Sherlock to arch off the couch .

Sherlock pulled away from John’s mouth gasping. There was no good natured humor or sweet John left in those eyes. They were hooded dark masses of lust that left Sherlock’s mouth hanging open. He’d only ever imagined that it could be like this. That it could all be this simple. 

“God you’re gorgeous,” John breathed and the moment was broken. Hands needed to reassert themselves on the other’s skin for the sake of something, everything. It all mattered more. 

John shifted so they were slotted against one another as Sherlock attached his mouth to John’s neck. Licking and sucking his way downwards. John pushed hard against him causing them both to cry out at the feel of their hard cocks pressing against each other. They could feel the heat of the other, grinding harder like that would make it all the clothing disappear. It wasn’t enough, wouldn’t ever be enough. John located his hand next to Sherlock’s head thrusting against him impossibly harder.

“We need… We need-“ John breathed, breaking out into a groan after a particular thrust. Spots of precum was showing at the fronts of their pants. No longer sure whose belonged to who. Sherlock was moaning deep in his throat, the sounding vibrating out of his chest.

“Yes, whatever you want,” he agreed automatically pushing his hips up.

“My room,” he finally got out. The garbled words took Sherlock a moment to decipher.

“We can’t it’s empty-“ John froze causing Sherlock to as well. The doctor’s brows were scrunched together as if he didn’t understand. Sherlock didn’t understand either. “I mean here, here is fine. Now,” he punctuated the last word by deepening his voice impossibly lower in the way John liked.

The confusion was gone as Sherlock slid off the sofa and got into his knees. “Now,” he repeated again rolling the words out of his mouth smoothly. John shuddered as he sat up and slid forward in his seat. His eyes not leaving Sherlock’s mouth for a second. He dragged his own zipper down. Sherlock helped him push his pants down to his ankles.

Sherlock first took in those powerful legs, made that way from all of the running they did. John still had his shirt on but it was ridden up exposing bits of his abdomen. Most importantly John was hard, his length jutting proudly from his body. The liquid gathering at the tip begging for a touch of Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock bent his head forward without hesitation, but was stopped when John’s hand pushed against his shoulder halting any further action.

Sherlock glanced up glaring slightly with impatience. “What?” It was meant to be something other than the panted wisp of a word that came out.

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John,” he drew out the word with a sound of exasperation. When really it made his heart clench. That was John, his John. Always able to stop and put him first. Make sure he was okay. John opened his mouth again making Sherlock realize this could turn into a talk. He was no longer in the mood for talking.

Sherlock didn’t wait before dragging his tongue up the side of John’s hardness. Finally catching the bitter liquid at the slit of his best friend’s cock. He kept his face relaxed despite the taste. It was all just John and that was intoxicating. Sherlock was tenting his trousers in a way that would soon become painful without alleviation. 

“That mouth,” John started as Sherlock continued with his exploratory licks of his tongue. “It was designed for a face fucking wasn’t it?” 

Sherlock couldn’t resist pressing his palm against the bulge at the front of his pants. Sherlock opened his mouth wider, guiding John in with his free hand. He’d never done this before, never wanted to do this before. Sherlock started to bob his head like he’d seen in all of the porn videos he’d watched on John’s computer. He would make sure to concentrate and suck on the tip. John started to shallowly thrust his hips forward pushing more of his length into Sherlock’s inviting mouth. He was groaning and throwing out words that barely made sense. 

Sherlock had already unzipped his trousers. He grasped himself into his hands, working his length with hurried strokes. John looked down, his mouth sliding open in this perfect 'O' that had Sherlock thinking about reciprocation.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this Sherlock?” John drew out his name in a long groan that had Sherlock moaning around him.

Sherlock released John’s appendage from his mouth with a pop.“Yes,” he said mouth turned up in a half smile that pictured his arrogance.

What was left of John’s control vanished in a soundless snap. He reached down and grasped Sherlock’s locks in a tight grip before forcing that mouth back where he felt it belonged. John pushed himself all the way to the back of the detective's throat barely caring as Sherlock gagged around it. John’s hands gained purchase on the back of Sherlock’s head as he pounded forward.

“That’s right Sherlock, take it. Take all of it,” John gasped not slowing down for a moment. 

Sherlock’s hands tugged against his erection faster as he got closer. He wordlessly moaned around the cock trying to shove it’s way down his throat. John started to tense up and his hold on Sherlock’s hair grew tighter. The pain adding to everything Sherlock was feeling at that moment. 

Sherlock came first, it taking him by surprised. His deep baritone voice grounding out a long groan as he ejaculated onto the sofa and John’s legs. John watched as Sherlock’s gorgeous eyes closed in bliss shredding the ability to make this last any longer.

“Oh fuck, I’m coming Sherlock,” John warned pulling his length out just in time for the cum to spurt out on Sherlock’s waiting face. The white liquid fell along on the geniuses’ cheek and the edge of his mouth dripping downwards. If John hadn’t been completely spent and a little younger the sight of Sherlock wide eyed staring at him like that would have led to a second round. As it was they both breathed and took in what happened.

“Are you okay?” John asked, once again putting Sherlock before anything else.

Sherlock’s heart fluttered in his chest. “Yes. I’ve always wanted- I enjoyed that.”

“I know,” John said and it was the wrong words, but Sherlock didn’t care as John came off of the sofa to sit down next to him. Sherlock pushed himself closer. “I want it to always be like this.”

“Me too,” Sherlock admitted because it was okay here. 

Sherlock wanted to say it, say it all. How much he loved John. How it was not just loving John, but being in love with him. That he would turn back the hands of time and redo everything so that John would end up with him. That they could do these things every night. That he knew. He always knew, just like he knew he was too late. 

Because those things, weren’t real. Sherlock pushed himself up from the blankets that he had been laying under for too long. An achy haze settling over him as he forced his eyes open to take in the surroundings The stench in the air was not John, but dirt and grime. Crackheads milling about. Most of them laying down in the half dream state that Sherlock had been in. He was still high, could feel the opiates pounding through his system. It was all for the sake of a case of course, is what he told himself. The drugs made him think things he didn’t normally allow himself to think, take him so deep into his mind palace that it felt real. It all felt real until this moment. 

John.

John, his John. Wasn’t here but at his house in the suburbs, with his wife. A wife that was expecting a child. So perfectly ordinary when John was anything but. Sherlock tried to remember how to breathe as reality fully asserted itself. There was no his John anymore, because John wasn’t his. Would never be his. Sherlock swallowed past the emotions clogging up his throat and chest. There wasn’t time for this, this wallowing and misuse of his Mind Palace. The Work, he had work to do.

Sherlock laid back down into the waste and waited for the next dream.


End file.
